


"Knowledge Has A Price I'm Not Willing To Pay, But It Seems I Have To."

by Beautiful_Like_You



Series: "If This Was The End, Would You Go Through It With Me?" [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Fear, Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Mind Palace, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Torture, hostage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautiful_Like_You/pseuds/Beautiful_Like_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>THIS IS A WIP. I've fallen a bit out of the Sherlock fandom the last months due to stuff happening in my life etc, but I have not given up on this. I don't know when I'll get back to it, but I will.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A WIP. I've fallen a bit out of the Sherlock fandom the last months due to stuff happening in my life etc, but I have not given up on this. I don't know when I'll get back to it, but I will.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sighed, shook his head, and left the kitchen. Normally he’d keep the argument going, but it had been thirteen days, three hours and – no, he was not going to count minutes since the last case they had. That was Sherlock’s job.

Sherlock Holmes is an ass. He's always been an ass, and he'll always be an ass. However, since the good Doctor Watson moved in to 221B, Sherlock has been less of an ass. Everyone knows. Sherlock will hear them talking about it when they think he's asleep in his hospital bed. Normally he'll complain and rant and argue until everyone leaves him alone, but this time he won't. He’ll just want to sink in between the sheets and disappear. He’ll want them all to go. Except John. John can stay.

 

  
“Sherlock! Why are there nails in the jam?!” John slammed the fridge shut, and before Sherlock could open his mouth behind the laptop, John answered for him, “It’s for an experiment. Obviously.” and asked himself, “Oh, why do I even bother?”

Sherlock rose, closed the computer and in three large steps he sprung towards the fridge.

“Because, John, you’re an army man. You’re used to strict orders and clean this and clean that, and you couldn’t possibly – “ he began, but was abruptly cut off.

“Oh shut it, will you?” John stopped him, which then prompted Sherlock to put the jar of nails down and scowl back. “You know perfectly well that’s not why I bother.”

Sherlock smirked, and began stirring the jam with  _John’s_ tea spoon, as he lowered his voice.

“Yes, of course. You’re sentimental. You’re  _worried_.” He mocked, chuckling a bit. “You’re worried that I might do something wrong, that it could be potentially dangerous.”

“I’m not worried! I just think it’d be best if you kept your experiments out of the food. For both of us.” John tried. Sherlock snorted, snatched a nail from the spoon, and examined it against the dim light from the kitchen lamp.

“Where’s the fun in that, hm? The jam was there, and I needed something to keep the nails in. The substance was perfectly suited for them. It’s not like it would’ve been used for something more important, anyway.”

John sighed, shook his head, and left the kitchen. Normally he’d keep the argument going, but it had been thirteen days, three hours and – no, he was not going to count minutes since the last case they had. That was Sherlock’s job.  
  
  
-

  
“John.”

Sherlock glared at him from his chair. John didn’t answer.

“John?”

John turned the page and kept reading the astonishingly boring newspaper. It seemed as if nothing happened these days. Nothing worth caring about, anyhow.

“ _John?!_ ”

Sherlock moved himself from his chair and onto the sofa next to John. He kept his glare trained on John and waited patiently for about four more seconds, before he started poking his flat mate in the ear.

“What?!” John answered, clearly annoyed.

“It’s been thirteen days, five hours and 38 minutes since our last case. I’m bored.” Sherlock sulked.

John kept reading the paper, or at least, pretending to.

“Yes, I know.” he mumbled.

“Find me a case.”

“I can’t just find you a case, Sherlock. It’s not like I’m Moriarty. I help you solve the cases, not invent them.”

“But I’m bored!  _Bored_! I can’t be bored! My brain will rot if you don’t give me anything to solve soon!”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, Sherlock! Use your imagination.”

Sherlock sat still for a while before he jumped off the sofa and… “ _ **And stay away from the food**.”_ stopped short.  
  
  
-

  
John opened his eyes, sat up, and checked his watch.  _It’s been thirteen days, nine hours… no. Stop it._ He shook his head and looked at Sherlock for a while before he yawned and stood.

“I’m going to bed. Stay away from the fridge, unless you’re hungry of course, or else I’ll have you go shopping next time.”

Sherlock snorted, but just as John started walking towards the door, his phone rang.

“John.”

“What?”

“It’s Lestrade.”

“Now? It’s late, I’m tired!”

“Well, I’m bored!”

And with that Sherlock snatched up John's phone.

“Hello, good evening, good morning, whatever I’m supposed to say really. When, where, how? Speak!”

John opened his mouth, but stopped before Sherlock could complain about him breathing too loudly, and went to get a quick shower.  
  
  
-  
 

The cab ride to the crime scene - which wasn’t really a proper crime scene anyway, since it was simply a stupid girl gone missing, making it a simple case, and guaranteeing that they’d be home by midnight – was one of the worst. Sherlock couldn’t seem to sit still, and John kept rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“How can you be tired, John? You’ve been doing exactly nothing for the last thirteen days.”

“I’ve done some things. I went shopping, since you never bother, I’ve been helping Mrs. Hudson, and I went on a date that actually went rather well until you showed up wearing –“

“Nothing of importance. And the date didn’t go well. You should be thanking me.”

“She was nice!”

“She had syphilis, three kids and a terrible urge to use your good will and money.”

“Why should having kids be a bad thing? I could have helped her, and she seemed to need… Wait, syphilis? How did you? No, never mind, I doubt I want to know.”

At this moment John allowed himself to praise a higher power, because the cab stopped and allowed the eager man and his grumpy flat mate to leave.  
  
  
-  
 

They found themselves in front of a huge mansion, with a passage lined up with oak trees. Three expensive cars were parked near the entry, behind them sat two police cars.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“What’s wrong now?” John asked as Sherlock shook his head in disbelief.

“Donovan is here. They won’t let me work.” Sherlock complained, looking utterly displeased.

“Of course they will,” John reassured, letting his hand rest on Sherlock’s elbow a few seconds too long, before he continued walking. “Lestrade invited you, so that means Donovan has to let you be.”

Sherlock nodded silently at this, and continued walking up towards the mansion.

Once inside they were met by Donovan’s glare.

“Why are you here, freak? This isn’t a crime scene, and we have no evidence. You can’t perform your tricks here. Besides, you shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people.” Sally scoffed, clearly glad to have something to complain about.

Sherlock scowled at her before replying sharply.

“Because you’re about as useful as a snail on drugs. Lestrade asked me to be here, so obviously you need me.” he snarled. “Now, you could at least use your walking skills to show us where Lestrade is, instead of slowing the case down even further.”

John gave her an apologetic look as she walked them towards the living room, where Lestrade and the girl’s parents were waiting. Lestrade immediately stood when they came into view, and hurried towards Sherlock.

“Yes, right. No leads, no witnesses, and no evidence. They’re all yours.” Greg whispered tiredly, gesturing towards the living room. It was obvious that he was tired; probably rich parents refusing to give up, difficult or no leads… Sherlock smiled and nodded once. At least this was something to keep the brunet entertained.  
  
  
-  
 

Once inside the living room, Sherlock put on a mask of sympathy, and sat on the sofa in front of the parents. He glanced towards John, who had sincere sympathy throughout his entire being, and got an approving look, so he promptly began.

“Evening. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I’m here to find your daughter. Now if you could start by telling me about her, that would be helpful.” he said, with a gentle smile on his face, which John saw straight through. The man in front of Sherlock removed his arm from around his wife’s shoulder, and leaned towards Sherlock to shake his hand.

“My name is Harold Smith, and this is my wife Elizabeth.” he started carefully, looking at the sobbing woman by his side.

“Our daughter, her name is Emily, she’s just turned eighteen years old. This is her last year in school, and she was planning to move away for further education as soon as possible. She’s very clever.” Sherlock tried to suppress his urge to object.  _Clever is a far too over used word,_  he thought.

“She… She’s 168 centimeters tall, and her hair is hazel brown, very long. It's about to the middle of her back, I think. She has green eyes and freckles. I… I don’t know what she was wearing when she disappeared. I woke up one day and the front door was unlocked. Her pyjamas were folded on her chair, and she was…” At this point Harold’s voice had started shaking, so he sat back, took a deep breath and just stared at Sherlock, his eyes begging for help. The words had indicated that he'd repeated them several times the past days.

“Right, thank you. I’ll be back in just a minute.” Sherlock stated before he stood.

“Now I know what you’re thinking, but we’ve already checked. The staff all has alibis. Everyone has an alibi, Sherlock.” Lestrade said before Sherlock even had a moment to speak. He looked at the DI with slight amusement.

“Of course they have. She walked out that door herself.” Sherlock stated, looking rather proud of himself, but he had no reason to. He gave John and Lestrade a few seconds to think this through before he explained.

“She folded her pyjamas, the door was opened from the inside, and her father told me she’s been planning to move away the moment she could. Her parents clearly seem to feel guilty about something. Obviously something happened that made her want to leave sooner. The question is what.”

John let out a sigh before responding.

“Of course they feel guilty, Sherlock. Their daughter is gone! They’ve been looking for her for three days now, and there are no clues. They probably feel angry at themselves for letting her out of their sight long enough to disappear. It’s a completely natural reaction!” John tried to explain, knowing that when Sherlock was sure of something, no one could correct him until they gave him obvious, concrete facts.

Sherlock thought this through for a moment, but shook his head and continued “Clearly, but there is still something missing. There is something they won’t tell me.” He went silent, losing his focus as he drifted into his mind palace.

_She’s like me. If her father is right, if she’s clever, she’s like me._

These new facts were crumbling around him. Another human being like him. She had ran away, obviously. He’d tried it himself one day, when he was her age, not bothering to wait till he could move away. That was, in the end, how he moved as well. Refusing to come back, he drove his mother almost to the point of insanity, and it made him feel more wary of the situation than before.

“What do you need me here for?” Sherlock asked Lestrade, frowning. “It’s not a murder case, there isn’t a victim, there are no witnesses, there’s nothing. She ran away. She’ll come back. This isn’t a case.” He scoffed, and hurried out the door while calling for a cab. John patted Greg’s shoulder.

“Sorry mate, he’s not been in a good mood lately.” He said,  apologizing for Sherlock's behavior before following the other man reluctantly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	2. The Curtain Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John felt like he could get sick. Written in Sherlock’s quick, cursive writing were the scientific names of narcotics, and what John could only interpret as their dealers. The line over some of the names he didn’t even dare to think what meant, but the note hadn’t been there earlier and Sherlock had been gone for hours, which could only mean… Jesus. He grabbed his coat and called Greg as he ran out the door.

-          _Please, anyone… It’s so dark… So dark…._

 

Sherlock had spent the last week stumbling between distracting himself and focusing on the case he had just abandoned. He didn’t want to; not one bit, but when he’d left the Smith’s Lestrade had held John back.

Sherlock had been waiting in the cab when John came back, frowning.

“Lestrade won’t give you any new cases until this one is closed.” John had said, and Sherlock hadn’t moved. He hadn’t spoken to John in two days after that, hadn’t opened his mouth until John had come home from work, tired, angry, and told him to ‘get a fucking grip’. After that he hadn’t slept. It had been five days now. Five, long days without sleep, and Sherlock suddenly jumped up from his chair.

“Of course!” Sherlock blurted out, running to the drawer next to the couch to rip out three, no, four nicotine patches. and lay down on the sofa, strategically placing them on his arm.

John looked up from his paper, frowning at the sight.

“Sherlock! That’s not good for you. You said it was a three patch problem!” John complained, but Sherlock opened his eyes, gave John a dark glare, and snapped “Case! Theory! Mind Palace, need to think, do shut up!” and turned his back. John couldn’t help but chuckle lightly, and leaned back in his chair to observe his flatmate for a moment.

 

-*-

 

_Imagine a palace. Imagine the tall walls, marbled floor, and shimmering stairs. Imagine the windows, the pillars, the great doors. It’s huge, it’s glorious, and it’s beautiful. And then you take the structure, you remember it, but you remove the surfaces. You still have the shapes in your mind, and instead of having stone walls, doors of tree, and marbled floors, you now have words. You have words of stone, describing the wall, the stone, the structure, feeling, taste, smell. You have words of marble, describing the floor, the origin, the colour, the age. You have words of tree, describing the doors, the texture, the feeling. And on each door there is a title. A bigger word, sometimes several, describing what you can expect to find behind each door. This is the Mind Palace. And this is where Sherlock opened his eyes to find himself, as so very many times before._

 

_Sometimes, Sherlock has nightmares, he **feels** , is overwhelmed by anything, and that makes things in the mind palace fall out of place. Normally he can allow himself to check things out, make sure everything is in order, but this time he just didn’t have time. He soon found himself in front of the section he hated the most. His Past. There are many things in His Past which he doesn’t want to be reminded off, and he rarely treads in there, but now it was necessary. He hurried himself, refusing to look at even one of the things that could threaten to disturb his row of thoughts, and found himself in the Youth. The years before he ran away._

 

_When Sherlock was four he had started playing the violin. He was constantly doing something different, learning new things because his mind wouldn’t let him slow down. Mycroft would read him the phone book as bedtime stories, because the repetition would be the only thing that wouldn’t stir Sherlock’s mind, but he deleted that a long time ago. He could remember a tall woman, though. Standing next to mummy and father, telling him that these are just a few questions, simple ones, and he remembered crossing his arms, saying “I’m not answering simple questions. It’s dull.” and walking away. He remembered the continuous testing they did on him and Mycroft to make sure they were okay, that there wasn’t anything wrong with them, and he remembered how it made him feel, and suddenly… there it was. Sherlock knew._

-*-

 

John had dozed off in his chair, his head hanging, leaning on his own chest, with a low, sharp snore threatening to increase in the depths of his throat.

Sherlock noticed. He always did, but this time he stayed for a moment or two, watching John in his sleep, this vulnerable state where nothing was hidden. Not like there was anything about John Sherlock didn’t know, but this was somehow exceedingly mesmerizing.

He shook his head, ran over to his phone, and as soon as his fingers hit the numbers all thoughts of consideration were lost.

“Lestrade! Get in your car, we’re going back to the Smith’s!” Sherlock yelled into the phone and hung up, bouncing over the coffee table as he headed for his room to change clothes.

When he got out John was standing in front of the door, almost smiling.

“Don’t.” John said, pointing to Sherlock’s chair.

“Sit. I’ll get you something to eat before we leave.”

Sherlock frowned at John, ready to push him away, but then his face softened.

“Alright, do hurry; Lestrade is expecting us at the Smith’s.” he responded, and willingly sat down in his chair again.

Sherlock followed John to the kitchen with his eyes before closing them, making out John's movements by the sounds he made. The creak in the floor telling him that John was on his way to the fridge. The low hums of uncertainty letting him know that John was wondering how to make Sherlock’s sandwich. The soft whistles, indicating that John was waiting for the tea to finish brewing. It was all rather calming, and when John came out with two plates and cups of tea he sat up, giving John a sincere smile and just barely uttered a “thank you” before eating in silence.

 

-          _Who’s there? Who are you? Where am I? Please! It’s so cold, so dark. I’m scared._

 

“No, no, no. Stupid, I’m so stupid. Oh, she’s clever!” Sherlock had eaten half of his sandwich when he’d started talking to himself again. He waved the sandwich around before he stood, dropped it down on the plate and set towards his bulletin board of London.

“Where do we go? Where has she gone?” he kept muttering. He let himself drop onto the sofa again, placing his hands together as he stared up at the roof. He didn’t even notice when John got up to remove the plates, clean up and started making a cuppa for each of them. He didn’t look up when John stood in front of him, placing the cup of tea on the table, and he didn’t hear it when John asked “Want me to call Lestrade and tell him we’re not going?” and of course he didn’t notice when John did. He didn’t move at all during John’s cleaning up the dishes, and when he got up and walked across the table he didn’t notice that John had left to buy groceries. He muttered a “No, no… Where did _I_ go?!” and grabbed his coat.

“John! We’re going out, hurry up!” Sherlock yelled, and didn’t realize that John was gone before he was well inside the cab, on his way to Kings Cross.

 

-          _What? No! Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt me!_

 

John hadn’t been gone for more than an hour, maybe one and a half, but when he got home Sherlock was long gone. To be completely honest, he didn’t really mind Sherlock being away. It wasn’t often that John was allowed some quiet alone time in the flat, and it was well needed, and so after organizing the groceries in the fridge (Sherlock would probably assault him later) he lay down on the sofa, ready to watch crap telly and relax.

It took John less than ten minutes to doze off again, and the silence proved to be far from relaxing. The sounds of the flat, the sounds of _Sherlock_ had started to become reassuring to John, and the silence was now drowning him, pushing him into nightmare after nightmare, making him sweat and squirm on the sofa before waking abruptly by falling on the floor. He silently praised Sherlock for not being there, allowing himself to calm down without having the detective glaring at him, deducing his fears, nightmares and thoughts. Shaking his head he quickly got up onto his feet, despite the pain in his shoulder and trembling hands.

John raised his hand to look at his watch and… fuck. Two hours? He’d been sleeping for two hours, and still hadn’t heard from Sherlock. His first thought was to call, but then he noticed the note on the table.

_Methamphetamine Hydrochloride – James, ~~Christopher~~ , ~~Adam~~_   
_Benzoylmethyl Ecogine – ~~Laurie~~ , Sam, ~~Matthew~~_   
_Lysergic Acid Diethylamide – Antoine, ~~Jeremy~~ , Christine_   
_Diacetylmorphine – Percy, Scott, Richard_   
_MethyleneDioxyMethAmphetamine – ~~Christopher~~ , Percy_   
_Speedball – ~~Christopher~~ , Percy, Richard_   
_Psilocybe Cubensis – ~~Laurie~~ , Christine, Charlie_

John felt like he could get sick. Written in Sherlock’s quick, cursive writing were the scientific names of narcotics, and what John could only interpret as their dealers. The line over some of the names he didn’t even dare to think what meant, but the note hadn’t been there earlier and Sherlock had been gone for hours, which could only mean… Jesus. He grabbed his coat and called Greg as he ran out the door.

 

-          _Don’t… please, don’t… It’s too much._

 

John met Greg at the yard, deliberately ignoring Mycroft’s calls and messages, because of course the other Holmes already knew something was up. He’d brought the note, hoping that Greg would have information on any of the names, but Greg, the poor man, was walking in circles around his desk, seemingly irritated.

“Greg!” John greeted his mate, entering the office with a wary expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, but Greg waved his hands in the air and sighed dramatically at him.

“Mycroft is being an arsehole again! We’ve caught two serial killers this week. _Two!_ And he just waltzes in here, and takes them with him! He didn’t even care to tell me why, when I’ve worked hard to catch them _without_ Sherlock, and he knows very well that I need to know!” Greg complained, sitting down by his desk.

“It’s not like he doesn’t take care of the paper work. I mean, there’s nothing left for me to explain to my bosses, and that’s fine, but he could at least tell me why, right?!” he rubbed his face, looking tired, before smiling to John, who gave him a compassionate look.

“Yes, he should, but that’s what happens when you’re working with the Holmes boys, you know?” John shrugged, sat down in front of Greg’s desk and smiled nervously, hoping the other would get the subtle hint. And he did, because suddenly Greg’s face darkened and he leaned his elbows on the desk.

“Yes, about that.  What’s happened?” he asked carefully, knowing that with Sherlock it could be pretty much anything. John frowned weakly and pulled out the note.

“I found this on the TV table. I still haven’t gotten through to him, so I was hoping you could check if there are some connections to these names in your databases while I call him again?” he suggested, getting up on his feet. Greg sighed again and looked at the note.

“Well, Sam does sounds familiar. Sherlock was doing coke at the time I met him, and the name Sam stands next to Cocaine.” He shrugged, but started working on his computer as John left the office. Sherlock denied the call three times before John got a text

\- Not now. SH  
\- Why not? –JW  
\- Drug dealers don’t like phone calls. SH  
\- Sherlock, where are you? –JW  
\- Sherlock, for Christ sake, answer! –JW  
\- Sherlock? –JW

He hurried back into the office, taking a deep breath.  
“Sherlock is having a relapse.” He muttered. Greg groaned deeply and got up on his feet.  
“Right. I think we’re headed to Kings Cross, then. He was wandering around there when I met him.” He insisted, and they left the office together to hail a cab.

 

-          _I… don’t think I can take this. Not any more…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	3. A Relapse of the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock grinned, remembering how they used to spend their days. Actually, he couldn’t really remember how they spent their days, because days had passed, weeks had gone and he hadn’t even noticed when Mycroft had called to get him home for Christmas. They had been sprawled out on the worn out sofas placed in the dark flat, the room filled with smoke and their minds filled with clouds of happiness and laziness when Mycroft had found them, and he had been too weak to protest, undernourished and out of his mind, when his brother had carried him out and signed him up for rehab. He had hated Mycroft for that, for not even allowing him to say goodbye.

-          _I’m so tired. Let me sleep, let me go. Please…_

 

“Long time no see, Sherly. Really. Good to see you. How’ve you been?”

The words rambled through Sam as he leaned back and took a deep drag of the joint between his fingers.

“Want some? For old time’s sake? It’s on me.” He asked, passing the joint over to Sherlock. The detective smiled affectionately, but pushed Sam’s hand away.

“No, I’m afraid that’s not why I’m here.” Sherlock replied, his voice dark, but soft, and he looked around the room. It honestly hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been there, and even though the smell should be nauseating, the mess and dirt disturbing, it was nice. The other man stretched out in the sofa and took another drag of the joint.

“Man, this is some good stuff.” Sam exclaimed appreciatively, and groaned. “You didn’t bring any munch, did you? I’m _starving._ ”

Sherlock grinned, remembering how they used to spend their days. Actually, he couldn’t _really_ remember how they spent their days, because days had passed, weeks had gone and he hadn’t even noticed when Mycroft had called to get him home for Christmas. They had been sprawled out on the worn out sofas placed in the dark flat, the room filled with smoke and their minds filled with clouds of happiness and laziness when Mycroft had found them, and he had been too weak to protest, undernourished and out of his mind, when his brother had carried him out and signed him up for rehab. He had hated Mycroft for that, for not even allowing him to say goodbye.

Of course it all made sense; if Mycroft had warned him Sherlock would have found a way to escape, and then he’d never gotten out of it, never found his work, never found John… but this. Seeing Sam sprawled out on the same old sofa, as if it had just been yesterday… Evidently they had both gotten older; Sam was lacking a pair of teeth and was starting to lose his hair, but it did something to Sherlock. Maybe… maybe just a little? For old time’s sake? No one would know.

 

-          _What? What’s that? No! No, I’m not taking that, please!_

 

John and Greg had spent the entire day searching, and they had now split up. Apparently Sam’s flat was part of a witness protect program (also known as Mycroft doing favours for Sherlock), and so they had given up searching directly for him. Instead they had taken one half of the note each, and John was now walking around in Kings Cross asking for a… Percy. He hadn’t gotten anywhere, and frankly he was getting tired, angry and upset, so he didn’t really think far when he heard a soft voice behind him.

“I hear you’re looking for Sherly boy.”  
John spun around, ready to snap with the words ‘Listen here, you little shit!’ on his tongue, but then he froze. There, in front of him, stood a tall, gorgeous woman in a dark purple coat, a black hat and matching pants. Her hair was long and brown, her eyes green, and her bright pink lips formed a kind smile.

“I… uh, yes. Yes, I was.” John stuttered, suddenly nervous and caught off guard. The woman smiled and reached her hand out.

“My name is Laurie Hamilton.” She introduced herself, shaking John’s hand. The warm touch of her skin sent sparks through him. “I doubt you’ll find Sherly out here, but it seems he’s finally gotten a proper boyfriend. I’m glad.” She added, and let go of his hand.

“No, I’m… no.” John answered nervously, his cheeks flushing lightly. “I’m not his boyfriend.”

“Oh, but I think you are. Why else would a… retired army doctor like yourself, all moral and ethics, wander around Kings Cross?” Laurie giggled, her laughter grabbing his brain and shaking it. John took a deep breath and frowned, completely ignoring the fact that she had just deduced him, just like Sherlock had the first time they had met.

“No. No, I’m not. Why does everyone keep saying that?! What does a man have to do to make people believe that I’m _not gay?!_ ” John complained loudly, tired and upset, but Laurie had stopped giggling now. Instead she gave him a teasing smirk and bit her lower lip discretely.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think a date would convince _me_ , at least.”

-          _I feel so… dizzy… Where are you? Why can’t I see you?_

 

There were days where Sherlock and Sam would do nothing, and there were days where they’d do everything, and Sherlock had loved it. All of it. He had loved the pure excitement, the adrenaline running through his body, pulling him apart and putting him together every time they tried new drugs or were late on payment. And he had loved the drugs silencing his mind, making the world slow and the edges dull, letting him relax. Sherlock personally had been beaten to a bloody pulp more than once because they owed people money, but it hardly mattered when they could slip right back in. Sam had eventually started selling, which earned them more money, more drugs, and life had been perfect. In reality, Sherlock hadn’t ever wanted anything more, or less, but Mycroft had insisted that the Holmes boy wasn’t allowed to live happily, and so he’d been taken away.

Today was apparently one of those days Sherlock realized something about himself, and he suddenly realized how much he had missed all of this. It would be awfully easy, really. To just let go and fall back into the old patterns, to create his own excitement instead of being so dependent of Lestrade.

Sam seemed so relaxed, so calm and content with his life. It was admirable, hopelessly pulling Sherlock closer and closer. He was utterly tempted to give in, to grab the remains of the stash that was laid out on the table in front of him, put something together and… shoot it? Snort it? Smoke it? Anything, really. He wanted the rush, the good, old feeling, to be blown out of his mind, and fall back down. He wanted to smoke and feel hungry, feel _hunger_ again, ripping at his stomach. He wanted to eat and eat from his heart’s content, to lay in the couch, laughing with Sam. It would have been so easy, so ridiculously easy to just… give… in.

 

-          _I can’t see… Can’t feel… What have you done to me?_

 

“Oh, right… Uh, yes. Yes, that would be great.” John stuttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I mean, it sounds great, really it does, but… You don’t even know my name, we’ve only just met.” He continued, but wasn’t really sure why. This woman, this gorgeous, nice woman, had just flirted with him, but he couldn’t really focus on that right now.

“I know, John Watson. You’ve been looking after Sherly for hours, of course I know who you are, and of course I know you’re worried. But I also know that when you’ve found him, you’ll be more than willing to come with me.” Laurie answered softly, dragging her phone up. John stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

“What, how did you do that?!” he blurted out, shifting on his feet. He suddenly felt naked, exposed. Not the same careless exposed he felt with Sherlock, as if there was nothing between them, but this was different. As if this woman had just pulled his skin off, and his heart, soul and mind was pouring out of him, but still she smiled so kindly…

“How do you even know Sherlock?” he suddenly asked, his expression confused, uneasy, and her soft smile turned into a grin, her eyes lighting up her face as she let out a short scoff of laughter.

“Sherly? Oh, my dear, the things we used to do together. Me, Sam and Matthew, goodness. When good, old My hooked the dear, young one out, I got out as well. I think Matthew was murdered while Sherly was still in rehab, and I think Sam is in exile. It seems Mycroft hasn’t told him, though, so that won’t be pretty.” She explained slowly. Her voice was dreamy, and behind the smile was a sad, distorted expression.

John pinched the bridge of his nose as it dawned on him, but when he looked up at her again, still confused, he smiled weakly. Laurie shook her head, as if shaking off something uncomfortable, and gave a short chuckle again.

“I guess you’re still confused. Sherly taught me a trick or two when we were younger. Some of it stuck; it’s how I’ve gotten so far.” She explained, gesturing to her expensive clothing.

“Now, I’d suppose you know enough about me, so I’ll just ask what I came here to ask: Why are you here?” The expression on her face turned dark, the laughter in her voice clouded with a stern sincerity. John took a deep breath and couldn’t help but feel like he was stepping somewhere he had no right to be, but Sherlock was his friend too, after all.

“We, DI Lestrade and I, have reason to believe Sherlock is relapsing. We’ve been searching for him, but can’t seem to find him.” He explained shortly, hoping this woman, this kind, sweet woman, who had gone through this herself, would show some kind of understanding, and she did. Her dark expression turned to worried, and she rested a hand on John’s shoulder and sighed sadly.

“Well, in that case… I always hoped Mycroft would make sure he kept away from this environment. Sherly always was an easy addict; he’d do practically anything for a good high in the worst days. I used to say it was a good thing the rest of us cared enough about money to afford to keep him out of the worst stuff, but if he’s gotten his nose back in, now…” she replied silently, mostly to herself, before looking right into John’s eyes with a soft smile.

“I’ll help. But you owe me that date.”

 

-          _Make them go away. Please, make them go away!_

 

“I’ve stopped selling coke, y’know. A while after you disappeared. People were saying you’d OD’ed on speedball. It just didn’t feel right, so I’m pretty far off the market now. Could get you some meth, though.” Sam broke Sherlock’s train of thoughts. It seemed so long ago, and yet it was all so familiar. The longing he’d felt during rehab. He had hated himself, hated everything, and now he was here again…

“No, no, no, Sam!” Sherlock sighed heavily and rubbed his face. The memories of meth weren’t something he wanted to relive no matter how hard the urge.

“You know that’s not what I’m looking for!” he leaned back in the sofa, groaning lightly. “I need some hallucinogens.”

Sam laughed and, for the first time during the conversation, sat up to and put his joint away.

“Funny. This guy came in just the other day and asked for the same. He reminded me of you.” he explained, looking over the back of the sofa for a bag as Sherlock sat up, shooting Sam an interested look. _A guy? Unexpected, interesting, but relevant? Debatable._

“He said he’d be needing a new supply by the weekend, so I stocked up.” Sam mumbled, pulling the bag up. _Definitely relevant._ He was just about to hand Sherlock a test to see if it was fine when his old friend got up on his feet and straightened his coat.

“I want the exact same product and amount. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	4. Some Things Missing Can't Be found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence was nearly painful, cutting through him as poison through veins, and no matter how much he tried he just couldn’t seem to focus. It was frustrating, confusing, annoying. He struggled to keep focus, staring into the microscope but seeing nothing at all. It was so far from Sherlock’s natural behaviour it was shocking, and he stood up to pace around, spending some of his energy.

-          _I can’t… I can’t… No more…_

 

Sherlock didn’t waste any time when Sam had measured up the amount he wanted. He grabbed the bag and dug down his pockets to search for his wallet when Sam stood up on his feet.

The shorter man, now looking way more damaged than he had earlier, stepped closer, and before Sherlock could react Sam had pulled him into a tight embrace, something neither of them had even known he wanted before it was suddenly over.

Sam grabbed his arm, squeezed it lightly, and backed away.

“It’s on me, Sherly. This one time.” He murmured softly and went back to his sofa.

“And hey, say thanks to My from me, will ya? He’s successfully kept the coppers off since he took you away. He left me a note when he left off with you.”

With that the man slumped down on the sofa again and let out a sigh of comfort.

Sherlock stared at Sam, but quickly decided that it wasn’t his fault. He would have to talk to Mycroft later.

“Yes… Thank you, Sam. For everything. It’s been nice.” He stuttered, lingered by the door, and added before he left,

“I’ll come see you sometime soon. I promise.”

 _That was too close, far too close…_ Sherlock thought to himself as he left the flat, and hailed a cab.

_How did this happen? Why did I delete so much, why didn’t I remember?  I should have met Sam earlier. I should have fixed so much… Why didn’t Mycroft tell me? He should have told me he left a note, should have let me at least say goodbye. I don’t even know where most of them are now, I only have Sam left… And John, but John came later. If Mycroft hadn’t gotten me out of there I never would have met John… Should probably thank him. No, never. I’ll never thank Mycroft. I should thank John. That’s what people do, right? Thank, when they’re… happy, for something? Right?_

“Right?”

“Uh, sir?” the voice abruptly shook Sherlock out of his thoughts.

“Uhm, yes?” he stuttered, and looked up into the cabbies eyes.

“We’re here.” The cabbie answered, looking slightly worried. Sherlock looked outside. He nodded, paid the cabby, and slid out of the cab.

_That was not good. How could I let myself do that? I need to focus on the case. Emily. Where is she? It’s remarkable, really, how much like me she really is. I wonder how far it goes. Hopefully the hallucinogens aren’t too bad. I’ll have to test them to know for sure, but I don’t think John would approve. I still have to; this is getting rather tedious isn’t it? She’s just run away; they shouldn’t need me to find her. I hope John won’t get too mad at me for leaving without telling where I went, it’s not like I could wait. Well, I probably could, I probably should, but that’s not how I work. Maybe I should change that… for John. He is helpful after all. Most of the time, when he’s not nagging and disturbing and complaining and…_

“Dammit, John! Stop distracting me!” Sherlock yelled, and a petri dish went into the wall. The shattered glass spread around the room, leaving Sherlock in complete and utter silence as he stared into thin air.

 

-          _Will you help… Please help… Promise._

 

“You would? That’s great, thank you!” John exclaimed, feeling a bit more at ease, now. Surely Laurie would know more about Sherlock’s hideouts as she was his old friend, even though the concept of Sherlock having old friends still seemed distant to him.

“So, where do you think we should find him? He’s been gone for hours, and he left a note with… uh…” John began explaining, his voice slightly slurred from the rapid words. He pulled the note up from his back pocket, handing it to Laurie.

“This is the second half of the note, DI Lestrade has the first. I think your name stood next to coke, but it was crossed over. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Laurie hummed sadly, glancing over the list before she handed it back to John.

“I’m afraid that means that Sherly thinks I’m dead. It might have been for the best the past years, but I must admit; I had hoped he would figure it out. I haven’t exactly been in hiding, but we both know how little interest Sherly finds in the people not revolving around him.”

Laurie chuckled, but it was if her eyes were clouded, not really focusing on John anymore. She shook herself out of it and turned away, clearing her throat.

“Oh, goodness. If he’s relapsing he’s either gone for Heroin or Shrooms. Percy’s out of business, Richard disappeared last weekend, and Scott is out of town. That leaves us with Christine and Charlie, and I know where they are. Let’s go.”

 

-          _Please, let me out… I can’t move…_

 

The silence was nearly painful, cutting through him as poison through veins, and no matter how much he tried he just couldn’t seem to focus. It was frustrating, confusing, annoying. He struggled to keep focus, staring into the microscope but seeing nothing at all. It was so far from Sherlock’s natural behaviour it was shocking, and he stood up to pace around, spending some of his energy.

What was wrong he couldn’t grasp, and his mind fluttered backwards through the day in a hopeless attempt to understand. He had met Sam, they had talked, he had remembered. Could it be that he’d been too close? Falling back into his old patterns would doubtlessly have cost him his Work and John, but it shouldn’t matter that much. It shouldn’t cloud his mind and disturb him when he was working; after all, he hadn’t done anything at all, and there was nothing indicating that John would leave him. Why he couldn’t seem to think of anything but this was completely lost to him, and then he remembered the note.

“Oh…” he muttered to himself and pulled his phone out of his trousers, skimming through the 23 texts he’d gotten. He smiled to himself.

“Of course.”

\- Where the fuck are you?! JW

\- Sherlock! Answer me, now! JW

\- Christ, pick up the goddamn phone. JW

\- Jesus. JW

\- I can’t believe you. JW

\- I swear you’re going to be the death of me. JW

\- You better fucking be in that flat over there or I don’t know what I’m going to do when I find you. JW

\- Right. If you could tell me where you are, that would be nice. JW

Sherlock looked up from his phone, and started typing rapidly.

 

-          _I’m so tired, so very, very tired…_

 

Sherlock wasn’t with Charlie and Christine, all though it was impossible for either John or Laurie to know if he had been as the couple was tripping as if they’d never done anything else.

John couldn’t get out of there quick enough, but as soon as he was outside his phone buzzed. He fetched it, checking as Laurie said properly goodbye to the tripping couple.

\- At the lab. May be late.-SH

The text was followed by a

\- Testing relevant substances. Don’t need you yet.-SH

John wanted to scream, rip his hair out, but Sherlock wasn’t done disturbing him. Soon after came a

\- Could use some assistance.-SH

and then

\- Not necessary, however.-SH

and a not so very subtle

\- Can manage alone. Might blow up the lab, not very probable.-SH

and at last a short

\- Not very dangerous. Wouldn’t interest you.-SH

When Laurie came out he was close to throwing his phone in the wall, and she quickly grabbed it, skimming through the messages with a soft smirk on her face.

“Oh, my, is he crying for attention?” she giggled happily.

“So, he’s at St. Barts, then? I suppose you would want to see him. I wouldn’t blame you. Don’t be too kind, however! He only ever listens when you force him to. If he has relapsed, he sure deserves it, and if he hasn’t… Well, I bet he could use the reprimand anyway.” Her voice was clear, the words dancing out of her mouth as she gave the phone back to John who, not oddly, was glaring at her with a still surprised, and very convinced expression.

“I still can’t get used to someone talking about Sherlock like that. You have a lot of explaining to do, but you’re right; I really need to get to the lab now.” John replied, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

Laurie smiled and lay a hand carefully on his shoulder.

“Everything in time, dear. Right now, however, I think we should go find a cab, don’t you think?”

“The sooner the better.” John answered darkly, but rested his hand on hers, smiling thankfully to her.

-          _I’m falling… falling, falling, falling so fast._

The cab ride felt uncomfortably long, and John was more than happy when they finally pulled up at Barts. They had finally agreed on meeting seven at a restaurant called Le Gavroche, and Laurie’s impeccable French accent had sent a shudder down John’s spine.

She had left him with a peck on his cheek, and as the cabbie pulled off again she rolled down her window and yelled “Say hi to Sherly for me, John!” John nodded to himself and turned to the door.

Sherlock was sitting in peace and quiet staring into a microscope when John came barging in.

“There you are. She’s taking Psilocybin.” He declared proudly, not looking up from the microscope. In the corner of his eye he could see John approaching, his shoulder hanging slightly, and he sighed.

“And you should really start sleeping more at night instead of daytime when I’m not… _Whoa!_ ” Sherlock screamed out as John suddenly pulled his chair back, balancing it on the two back legs.

Suddenly their faces were inches apart, and John was glaring at him with an expression Sherlock had never seen before. His heart jumped, and he swallowed heavily.

“Jesus! What have you been taking?!” John barked, his grip of the chair threatening to send Sherlock straight in the ground.

“Nothing!” Sherlock yelled back, but John only leaned closer.

“Your pupils are dilating. Tell me, Sherlock.” He sneered, at which Sherlock jumped up, and moved away, waving his hands angrily.

“Of _course_ my pupils are dilated! You just pushed my chair backwards! It’s a perfectly normal shock reaction! You’re supposed to be the doctor of us!” Sherlock snarled, walking in circles.

“Now can you for once stop distracting, and be of use instead?!” The words slipped out before he managed to stop them.

He stopped waving his hands, sank his shoulders, but what came next he was so utterly unprepared of he would never forget it. 

“No. I’m not going to help you with anything at all right now. I’m going to go home, I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to go on a date.” John retorted, calmer than ever, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest John simply laid his hand over his flatmate’s mouth and shook his head.

“I’m going on this date, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, and I hope for all of our sakes that you won’t ruin it this time. She’s a wonderful woman. Laurie Hamilton. She told me to say hi.” he continued, before leaving the lab and Sherlock in complete and utter silence. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	5. When You Least Expect It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his collar up and his coat swishing behind him he lurked in the shadows, and more than once he made direct leaps over a container, or made sharp cuts instead of following the road, and it wasn’t until he found himself on top of a roof that Sherlock realized that John wasn’t there with him. The realization hit him as a punch to the face, and he remembered why he was there in the first place… Laurie.

-          _You want me to give up? It’s not going to happen. I won’t be here forever.  
_

 

Laurie was back? She couldn’t be, she’d been dead. Sam was the only one remaining of the trio he had left. And Mycroft had known all along. Sherlock felt like exploding, blowing up the entire lab, himself, dragging London down with him. He wanted to do something outrageous, but instead of pacing around, yelling theories in his own face, and then counter them back, he stood still. Frozen in his own mind, like an animal in hibernation, yet his mind was spinning, rolling, soaring high and crashing low.

Too much, too little, and he couldn’t face it, couldn’t place the feelings, facts, nothing, everything. His hand started to tremble, and though he’d never admit it his lack of sleep was making his heart race, panic slowly creeping onto him. This wasn’t right, none of it was. As if anything had ever been right, but it wasn’t, and it seemed like it never would be. He was Sherlock Holmes, he was supposed to know everything, to see, to observe, to learn, and yet there was nothing in his mind that would have indicated this.

Sherlock sighed, his trembling hands running through his hair in a hopeless effort to calm down, regain control over his own mind.

“No, no, no… This is wrong!” he complained, and the silence in return was worse than any condescending remark he could have gotten.

Fingers tugged at his hair, pulled his eyes open, forced him to look around.

_That chair, used by an overweight man with a limp. Microscope, bad sight, irregular on both eyes. Lost and found box, where is the lost and found box._

Sherlock spun around and searched with his eyes. Nothing. There was nothing there for him to hold on to, nothing to deduce. His fingers tightened around his curls, pulling until it hurt, and then pulled a bit harder.

_Lamp! Light bulb changed about two months ago, it’s flickering, probably going out soon. This is pathetic. I’m being pathetic. Why didn’t they tell me? She should have come to me! And now she’s with John, and they’re going on a date, and I’m panicking. Why am I panicking? Caring isn’t an advantage. It shouldn’t matter, it doesn’t matter._

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut with a strangled groan, and opened them up with a gasp, a quick, deep breath.

“I need to stop this.”

 

-          _It’s going to end. Either they find me, or I die. You won’t win.  
_

 

Meanwhile, in a hidden apartment the pitiful civilians would never know about, Mycroft Holmes was having a glass of scotch in front of his desk, bathing in the glory of his ‘minor government’ job.

“You need to get better surveillance on your brother.”

Mycroft’s self-inflicted grin fell, and he quickly regained his well known, fake smirk as he put the glass down.

“Gregory. I see you’ve gotten around my security. _Again_. What’s so urgent this time?” he asked, his voice sugar coated, but Greg scoffed and more or less retorted the fake smirk with a scowl.

“Knock it off, Mycroft. For once, will you get off your high horse?” Greg nearly snarled, but a smile was hidden in the corner of his eye, and Mycroft’s fake smirk was quickly replaced with a soft shimmer.

“Sherlock went missing, and…” Greg started, but was abruptly cut off by Mycroft’s replaced smirk.

“Sherlock is not relapsing. To think that you thought he’d be that obvious about it, it’s a shame to my blood.” Mycroft sneered. “Now if you don’t mind, _Officer_ , I’m busy.” He continued, his voice only ever so teasing as he gestured to his glass of scotch. Greg frowned.

“Watch it. It’s _Detective Inspector_ , and you are condescending me. Your ‘minor government position’ does not remove my privilege to put you in cuffs and take you down to the station.” Greg threatened, but his words only brought a greater smirk to Mycroft’s face.

“Actually, it does. But feel free to cuff me and bring me _down_ , either way. We both know I’d still be in charge.”

 

-          _I… I don’t understand. If you’re not them, what am I seeing?  
_

 

Sherlock found himself walking around in London, and to be frank this new observation was almost enough to drive him to panic again. He had left his phone and the bag of Shrooms in the lab with the list of results, but it didn’t really matter anymore. It was getting dark, and the streets were cold, but that hardly mattered either. He couldn’t help but think… _Maybe, just maybe I should go back. Sam would take care of me. Sam knows what to do when I can’t focus. I don’t._ And he kept walking, with no further intentions as to where he was going and how he was getting there.

With his collar up and his coat swishing behind him he lurked in the shadows, and more than once he made direct leaps over a container, or made sharp cuts instead of following the road, and it wasn’t until he found himself on top of a roof that Sherlock realized that John wasn’t there with him. The realization hit him as a punch to the face, and he remembered why he was there in the first place… _Laurie_.

_That’s right, Sherlock… Laurie is back. No, she’s not back, she never left. You never knew. How pathetic is that? The world’s only consulting detective, and you didn’t even know about **her**. Can you even call yourself clever at all? You’re failing this case, Sherlock. You’re failing yourself._

Sherlock shook his head, shaking the thoughts out. He needed his mind to shut up, he needed to calm down.

_That’s right. Calm… Remember the last time you were calm, Sherlock? Before **My** took you to rehab. He hates you. He left you all those years when you were a kid, only to take you away from Laurie and Sam and Matthew, the only ones who under **stand** , because he couldn’t bear seeing you happy. You should go back. Spite him. Spite that smug face of his…  
_

-          _Creatures… Why can’t I hear them? Why are they here?  
_

The restaurant was a posh place, nothing like John had ever seen, and he felt just a tad out of place. Laurie was wearing a long, dark pink (maybe purple?) dress, with a matching necklace. Her brown hair was loose around her shoulders, straight, just a tad brighter than Sherlock’s unruly curls.

John cleared his throat and managed a smile.

“So, um, Laurie.” He began.

“You and Sherlock… What’s the story? I mean, he’s never talked about you.” He asked nervously, before laughing at himself. “Christ, that sounds so rude.”

“No, no. It’s okay, I know Sherly.” Laurie reassured, placing her hand on top of John’s, which caused him to flinch just a bit. “We first met at university, actually. The poor boy was completely out of place, and he was trying so hard to show off and get people to like him… You can imagine.”

John swallowed heavily. The picture of Sherlock trying to make friends… It was painful, at least.

“It was Sam who saved him, really. We’d just started experimenting with drugs, and there he was, telling off Sebastian Wilkes in the hall. _You have a faint scent of Shrooms, and your nails indicate that you’ve been preparing marijuana. You obviously have money, and your gang of friends indicate that you’re into more than just Shrooms and weed, and despite you having money you can’t afford saying no to me._ Something along those lines. He was desperate to impress, and he wanted to experiment with drugs. Obviously the only thing his little speech earned him was a proper right hook, sending him straight down the stairs.”

John frowned, and Laurie smiled sadly.

“Sammy collected him before he had time to panic. He offered Sherly a free sample, and before we knew it we were… sort of a gang. But enough about that, let’s order.”

 

-          _You’re wrong! You’re all wrong! Stop lying to me!_

 

The date went far over John’s expectations. Their conversation was flowing easily, far more easy than his normal dates, and he learned a fair deal about Sherlock as well, which was why when Laurie grabbed her glass and raised it, he was a bit more than just a little confused.

“Let me raise a glass, make a toast, for John Watson, Sherlock Holmes first, proper boyfriend.”

John’s smile fell immediately, replaced in favor for a confused, shocked expression.

“I, you, what?” he managed to stutter, prompting a chuckle from Laurie.

“Well, of course? Have you heard yourself tonight? _How did you and Sherlock meet? What was Sherlock like? How did you manage him? Was he as stubborn as he is now?_ Christ, John, how have you been hiding it for Sherlock?” Laurie retorted, still chuckling sweetly.

John swallowed heavily, a blush creeping on to his cheeks.

“I, no… No, listen, I am _not_ gay. ” he complained, closing and opening his fists in frustration, but Laurie lay her hand on his again, shutting him up.

“Well, of course you’re not, but how does that stop the fact that you are in love with Sherlock Holmes? I don’t see the point in denying it; you’ve fallen head over heels for him. It’s quite lovely.” Laurie insisted as she squeezed his hand gently.

John frowned even greater, pressing his lips together with disapproval, and then he sighed.

“Fine, yes, fine. Just, don’t tell him, will you? It’s… nice to have something he doesn’t know about. Especially when it’s about him…” 

 

-          _It’s dark… dark… silence…  
_

 

Laurie had agreed to keeping their little secret… well, just that, a secret, and after some more chatting, and maybe just a bit more drinking, their waiter had come to inform them that the restaurant was closing for the night. Chuckling and giggling the two newfound friends had left the premises arm in arm, and as John managed to hail a cab for her, Laurie had stopped to hold him still.

“John Watson, you are a wonderful man, and I am glad you have found each other, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get to see my Sherly after all this time. I think, after this date, this would be the perfect time for you to invite me home.”

Of course, this had prompted John to holding her hand, bowing all gentleman like, and asking, with a slight chuckle in his voice, if she would like to have another drink at this place, and Laurie had giggled out a “yes, I most certainly would”, and together they had left in said cab.

The cab ride had been surprisingly pleasant, with Laurie telling stories about Sherlock, and the pair of them comparing Sherlock’s reactions and facial expressions, they were having a lovely time, but when they got out of the cab it seemed as if cold air wasn’t just cold anymore, it was biting.

A faint cry from a violin in the distance forced a curse from John, and a sad smile formed on Laurie’s face.

“He’s home.” John simply muttered, before walking towards the door. It was as if both of them had turned sober in the blink of an eye.

The walk up the stairs felt like it took ages, and in the apartment Sherlock could hear the slow footsteps crawling up the stairs. It didn’t take a genius to work out that John wasn’t coming home alone, or that he was trying hard not to be heard.

As the door creaked open Sherlock tried hard not to turn around, and kept his stare out the window. He let a few, well placed strokes on the violin, and moved the bow away, letting the sounds calm around them before speaking.

“It’s nice to see that you’ve found someone, however I am on a case and the ventilation system in this building makes it very easy for me to hear what goes on. I would be grateful if you could keep it quiet.”

Sherlock’s voice was calm, cold, sending shivers down John’s spine, and despite neither of them quite understanding who Sherlock was referring to Laurie grinned. In a few movements she had walked across the room and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“Oh, Sherly. You _have_ missed me.” She exclaimed softly, and to John’s amazement Sherlock lowered both his arms and turned around, leaning his head on Laurie's shoulder.

“Evidently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	6. A Well Earned Story Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurie sighed and looked down at her hands, barely noticing John’s facial expression. Truth be told, he hadn’t really needed to know this, but it explained so much so he let her talk. It seemed as if she needed to get it out as well, so why stop her now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for late updating - we had a school show this weekend so I didn't have time to finish that weeks chapter!
> 
> Thanks to at_kilis_service for helping me when I've been stuck, and when I haven't been able to see my own grammar mistakes! <3

-          _You won’t kill me with silence… you can’t…_  


 

If anyone had told John Watson that the day would come that a beautiful lady would ask him out for a date, and then take Sherlock Holmes to bed, he wouldn’t have laughed. He would have raised an eyebrow and asked if you were okay, possibly check you for head trauma or have you admitted to a hospital. That was, however, exactly what was happening, and John couldn’t do much but to stand and watch.

The shock of watching Sherlock pliantly turn and rest against a woman he hadn’t seen in years had been enough to keep John staring, not moving an inch, and the scene playing out in front of him turned more and more bizarre by every moment.

To be fair, John couldn’t really work out how they had gone from leaning against each other, taking in each other’s scent and familiarize the way they felt, to Sherlock accusing Laurie of treason and betrayal for leaving him, and eventually to Laurie pointing out that Sherlock got way too cranky when he hadn’t slept.

She was right, of course, everyone in the room knew that, but Sherlock responded, not surprisingly, with a pout, claiming that, “I don’t sleep when I’m on a case, Laurie. You should know that.” with his condescending, bored voice, although the surprising part was what followed.

Laurie took a step back, seemingly admiring the sight in front of her, before she grabbed his arm.

“No. That’s not how it works, Sherly. Show me the way.” She had demanded, and despite the increasing pout on Sherlock’s face he, to John’s shock and awe, complied without complaints. He let Laurie hold his arm and led her to the bedroom.

With a growing lump of jealousy forming in his stomach he sat down, not sure how to feel anymore, but was eased when soft singing – had John perhaps heard this melody before? – emerged from the bedroom. He was half way to falling asleep when his phone buzzed.

\- I have a feeling you might need to see this. Laurie x

If anyone had warned John beforehand, if anyone had told him not to enter the bedroom despite his curiosity, he wouldn’t have listened. The thought of a woman, an actual human being, having dragged Sherlock Holmes to bed with no complaints from the latter, was too shocking, and the sight that met him when he entered he would lock away in his mind forever.

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, was curled up on the bed, eyes closed in a deep, calm sleep, and the only sounds coming from him was the soft hums and sighs as Laurie stroked his hair, fingers gently massaging his scalp.

 

-          _I can’t… I can’t…_  


 

Once out in the sitting room, after carefully leaving the bedroom without waking Sherlock, Laurie was prompted to explain, and she did so with a smile. Of course, it was rather obvious if John really thought about it – _come on, John, **observe!**_ -, because Sherlock had played that melody before, on his violin. John would hear it in the dawn of mornings, and when he woke Sherlock would be gone and the door to his room closed, not to be opened until the next morning. It would only make sense that Sherlock needed the routine, the continuity of it, to be able to relax properly, what with his silly sock index and all.

And that was exactly how Laurie explained it. How Sherlock hadn’t slept at all the first week she’d known him, how he’d organized everything, his study papers, their study papers, indexed their cups and forks, and eventually moved on to organizing Sam’s hair.

“Oh, sod it…” John sighed, and sat down in his arm chair. “I’m no good at this.”

Laurie sat down in Sherlock’s chair, tilting her head just a bit, and patted John’s knee.

“I don’t think he’s ever intended to let you see his weak side, John. You see, with me he lets himself be weak and vulnerable, because that was how I found him. But, you manage to keep him alive, to keep him going, and that’s more than most of can say.” She assured him.

John sighed and took the words with precaution. It was true; Sherlock had seemed strong, powerful, nearly frightening when John had first met him, but it hadn’t taken him long to figure out how much of Sherlock was nothing but a façade. _I don’t eat when I’m on a case, John, digestion slows me. I don’t need sleep. I’ll be fine; it’s just a sprained ankle. It’s okay, it’s just some acid._ Everything about Sherlock stood against his knowledge as a doctor, but the thing that worried him the most was how Sherlock struggled with appearing better than everyone else, despite the fact that he knew just as well as John that it was unhealthy, even dangerous.

“I kissed him, you know.” Laurie added, cutting the silence that had appeared between them.

“I kissed him, and he kissed me, and I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for it. We were young, just barely nineteen, and we were smoking.”

John gaped at her, but Laurie didn’t seem to notice. She gazed past John, towards the bedroom, and smiled sadly.

“I don’t really know what got over us; Sherlock was feeling ill, so I took him to the bathroom in case he needed to vomit, and before I knew he… I… we were sitting on the bathroom floor, right?” She continued, and stopped to laugh just a bit.

“The bathroom floor, yes. Instead of vomitting, he just sat there, staring at me, and I leaned in to kiss him. He went completely silent, completely still, and at first I thought I’d done something wrong, but then he kissed me back. And, you know, things went as they often do with teenagers, and we were high out of our minds. You know, I hadn’t ever imagined him to be such a good kisser. To be honest, I hadn’t really wanted to figure out either, he’s like a little brother to me, but he was, and apparently I was too because we didn’t stay in our clothes for too long, and he didn’t seem to mind. You know, when you’re high you don’t really notice everything, but I remember it clear as day. Sherlock was so silent. I should have known something was wrong, because he didn’t make a sound at all when I pulled his pants down, or when I touched him. When I looked at him his pupils were blown and his mouth was open, but I thought it was a good thing so I kept going. And when he begged me to stop I suppose I should have, but I didn’t, and it wasn’t until he came and I saw the look of terror on his face I knew what was wrong. It was as if all the blood just… drained out of me in an instant, I felt cold and disgusting, and I can’t even begin to imagine how he felt. He cried, John. In all the years I’ve known Sherlock I never once saw him cry before or after that… incident.”  
  
Laurie sighed and looked down at her hands, barely noticing John’s facial expression. Truth be told, he hadn’t really needed to know this, but it explained so much so he let her talk. It seemed as if she needed to get it out as well, so why stop her now?

“We never talked about it.” Laurie muttered, fiddling with her dress.

“It was as if it never happened, but it’s so obvious on him. I think he’s terrified. He used to claim that no one wanted him, but it’s not entirely true, I think. I think he was just too scared to admit it. Too scared to let himself relax long enough.”

John finally opened his mouth, coughing gently to get her attention.

“I’m really sorry, but… it makes sense, though, in some twisted way. That’s Sherlock, you know? I don’t know, I’d never imagined him to be… well, anything really, and this sort of explains it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this, I don’t know.” He rambled, not wanting to do more damage, but not really wanting to just let it go either.

“Really, John. Don’t worry about it.” Laurie urged, smiling weakly. She stood and grabbed her coat before turning back to John who had now stood as well.

“It’ll be fine. I’m sure you’re more than capable of taking care of our favourite, childish detective.” She added, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know, I would stay, but it’s getting late and I think you need some sleep as well after today. Tell Sherly he can call me, okay? You have my number.”

  
 

-          _You won’t find me, they won’t find me, I can’t find me._  


 

John nodded and let his eyes flicker towards Sherlock’s bedroom, the door ajar so that he could just barely make out Sherlock’s peaceful, sleeping face. It was so rare to see Sherlock’s face relaxed, not put up in the concentrated frown, or merged into thought. A soft cough startled John out of his train of thoughts.

“Yes, sorry. Thank you so much.” He urged, smiling to Laurie as he followed her downstairs.

With a soft kiss to his cheek and a stroke on his cheek Laurie left the flat, leaving John alone with his thoughts, which in itself was cruel enough.

Because, what was he supposed to take from all of this, anyway? Was he supposed to talk to Sherlock, tell him what he knew? Was he supposed to let him be? There wasn’t really any answer that would be fitting, no questions he could ask without risking to come off as nosy, ignorant or stupid, and if he’d managed to stay on Sherlock’s good foot for this long he damn well wasn’t going to ruin that.

But what if, just what if Sherlock actually needed to talk about it? It wasn’t as if the detective was immune to trauma, actually, it explained a lot, and trauma shouldn’t go untreated.

John finally snapped out of his row of thoughts, realizing how chilly the air was as he’d never really closed the door after Laurie. He shuddered weakly and closed the door.

The walk up the stairs felt like ages, plotting out what to say to Sherlock, but when he entered the room it was as if the air collapsed around him.

Sherlock was still sleeping – _Of course, John, he hasn’t been sleeping for ages, use your brain!_ – And John couldn’t get himself to wake him, not now, not like this…

It felt odd, to see his hyperactive, danger seeking, adrenaline craving flatmate like this; lying curled up with a peaceful expression, chest slowly rising and falling.

There was nothing in the world that would make John wake Sherlock now.  


 

-          _Good night, sleep tight, don’t let those oddly shaped spiders bite…_  


 

John Watson wasn’t a sentimental man, he didn’t call his mother other than when necessary, he couldn’t be bothered to care when a beggar asked him for a cup of coffee, and certainly wouldn’t mind using some extra money on a special edition of the paper than to give his spare money to said beggar.

John Watson wasn’t sentimental, but he wasn’t a bad man either. He was compassionate, doing what he could when he could afford it, and when it mattered he thought of everyone else first, and his values and morals had made him a very fine doctor, an army doctor in that as well, which was why, when Sherlock shuddered lightly, John didn’t hesitate to put his man ego behind himself and tuck Sherlock closer into his blanket.

It wasn’t the biggest of gestures, but Sherlock seemed to settle down again with a sigh, and John was smiling when he turned to leave the room.

“Caring isn’t an advantage, John…”

Sherlock’s slow, slurred voice made him freeze – had Sherlock been awake all the time?

“Don’t prove it to me.”

No, no it sounded as if he was talking in his sleep, and the desperate plead that followed with a voice that John had never thought he’d hear coming from Sherlock only proved his suspicion:

“Please…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	7. The End of the Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week Sherlock had spent to get here, a week to find out where to look, a week to find this neighbourhood; suburban houses, all of them with basement, would be easy to hide in plain sight here. Just act normal and people, like this lady here, wouldn’t suspect a thing at all. Put a white van in a slum, and people will look. Paint a logo on it and park it in the suburbs, and… There we go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit hectic here at school, but I'll try to keep posting during the weekends!

_“Evening. ”_

_No, no, **no**!_

_“This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”_

_No! Not you!_

_“John… What the hell…”_

_“Bet you never saw this coming.”_

_No, it can’t be… Of course… Mycroft warned me not to get too close…_

_“What… would you like me… to make him say… next?”_

_Oh… Of course. Sentiment. Leverage._

_“Gottle of gear, gottle of gear, gottle of…”_

_Not this time._

_“Stop it.”_

_Sentiment. Don’t show sentiment. Save him, but no sentiment._

_“Nice touch this, the pool, where little Carl died.”_

_That’s not John, stop using John’s voice for this!_

_“I stopped him.”_

_Yes, we know, shut up._

_“I can stop John Watson, too.”_

_I… No, no you can’t. I won’t let you._

_“Stop his heart.”_

_No!_

_“Who are you?”_

_“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”_

_Oh, of course…_

_“Daddy’s had enough now.”_

_No, you haven’t._

_“But then, I am so changeable. I gave you a second chance, Sherlock, and still you haven’t figured it out. I’m a bit disappointed, really.”_

_What…?_

_“What are you talking about, Moriarty?”_

_Stand still, calm, no sentiment, keep your posture. Can’t let him see. He already knows._

_“I’m surprised you haven’t found her, yet. Have you given up, Sherlock? Are you really that obvious?”_

_“So you do have something to do with her? Thanks for proving my suspicion.”_

_“Oh, we both know that’s not true, Sherlock. I must say it is a bit amusing, though. You’re turning to me for advice? Can you really not remember yourself?”_

_“I didn’t turn to you. I never would”_

_“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. But your subconscious does. I’m guessing you can’t figure it out yourself, you’re too afraid of stepping over the **line** , so you make me do it, don’t you? See, I’ve already stepped the line, and I’m surprised. Have you really suppressed your own past so much you can’t find her? She’s done the same things you have, Sherlock. She’s being **sooo** naughty, I’m almost impressed.”_

_What, me? Of course. Me. I ran off, she ran off, we ran off, the Shrooms, she’s actually like me, she’s a mirror of me._

_“Oh, you’re getting it now, aren’t you? It’s so funny, I can actually see your mind spinning, you’re so **ssssslow**.”_

_Mirror, running off, obvious, hidden in plain sight, apartment, flat, basement,_

“Basement!”

Sherlock woke with a gasp, and jumped out of bed.

“John! She’s in a basement!” he yelled, stumbling out of balance. How long had he slept? Too long, too much time lost.

“She’s in danger, John!”

 

-          _I’m stronger than this… I am…_  
  


 

John wasn’t there, of course, but that might have been for the best. Although Emily had proven to choose the same things Sherlock had, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something underlying, something he should have seen, and to have John there… distracting him and putting himself in danger? No, it wouldn’t do good at all.

Luckily for Sherlock, John was at work, blissfully unaware of Sherlock pacing around the apartment while pulling his hair.

“Where, where, _where_?!” he asked himself repeatedly, and closed his eyes.

_Her manor is half an hour away from the city, couldn’t have gone by foot, of course she could. Probable? No. She wouldn’t have walked, which means someone would have driven her, but then why are there no witnesses? Of course, she’s not kidnapped, but she couldn’t have gone herself… Someone’s in on it, or someone has dragged her along…_

Sherlock stopped pulling his hair and opened his eyes wide. Not good. Not good at all. If he had been troubled trying to find her till now, he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to fetch her this easily. At least not when he didn’t even know exactly where she was.

_Running away, she’s in London obviously, hidden in plain sight, not too far away because that would be obvious, no, she’s close, closer than we think, but **where**?_

“Oh…”

Sherlock let out a soft breath and turned on his heel. He sprinted up to John’s bedroom, opened his bedside drawer and… What?! Of course John had to move his gun! He almost debated himself to call John, but the argument wouldn’t be worth it and so he started searching the room, not even bothering to tidy up after himself.

The gun wasn’t in John’s wardrobe, nor was it in his desktop, and Sherlock was close to giving up when he finally turned to look at John’s bed.

“No, he wouldn’t…” he muttered to himself, slowly approaching.

“Of course he would, he’s prepared for danger…” he added, and removed the pillow.

Bingo.

 

-          _I’m not afraid. You can’t break me!_  
  


 

John had hesitated to leave for work this morning, as if the sleeping detective would suddenly need him, but he’d eventually gotten himself out the door and to the surgery.

Ideally he wouldn’t be here at all; yesterday’s happenings had finally dawned on him, and it was confusing and upsetting. To be fair he’d rather take the day off, go down to the local pub and let the booze clear his head. Or, rather, cloud it enough to let him forget all of this.

“John? Are you still with us, or has your boyfriend kept you awake again?”

Sarah’s voice snapped him out, and he looked up at her with a frown.

“For the last time, Sherlock is _not_ my boyfriend!” he exclaimed, and Sarah frowned back at him.

“Hey, relax, grumpy. I was just kidding. Besides, you’ve got a patient and you didn’t answer on the intercom.” She complained, and closed the door behind her.

John was left staring at the door, wondering when he’d become so defensive over it, so protective over his own feelings. He wondered who could tell. Mycroft, of course, and the way Greg looked at them at crime scenes indicated that he knew something. Of course, the bastard had probably heard it from Mycroft himself. Mrs. Hudson had always thought they were dating, but Sherlock? Surely he would have seen it by now, but he’d never brought it up. Maybe he was just trying to be kind, in his own way.

With a sigh John sat up from his chair and stepped out after the door.

“Harry Stilton?”

 

-          _It’s so dark… cold… I’m so numb…_  
  


 

Sherlock had spent the entire day walking, searching, and he’d finally found the perfect neighbourhood. He stood basically tripping on his feet when the door opened and a short, blonde woman in a yellow dress smiled up at him.

“Oh…” he stuttered, blinking a bit. “I… you’re not my brother.”

The woman smiled bigger.

“No, darling, I think you’re right about that.” She joked, her voice old and hoarse. Smoker, lines around her mouth, but otherwise good taken care of. Around forty, maybe late fifties. Sherlock forced out a nervous laugh.

“He… He said he lives in this street, but I can’t remember the address. He’s just moved in, sorry.” He apologized, and turned to walk away when…

“Oh, no, that’s alright, dear!” the lady exclaimed, and put a hand on his elbow as she was too short to reach his shoulder.

Perfect.

Sherlock turned around and gave her a confused look, prompting a short laugh from her.

“It’s alright; I think he lives around the corner there, second house to the right.” She pointed down the road, and Sherlock grabbed her hand.

“Thank you so much!” he exclaimed, shaking her hand. This was more than he could have asked for

“I would be careful, though. He was struggling with his daughter when he came moving last week or so. Drunk, she seemed, in the middle of the day.” The lady added carefully, and Sherlock gave her a reassuring smile.

Even better.

“Oh, she’s a struggle alright. It’ll be fine, thank you so much!” he added, and gave her hand one last squeeze and left.

Emily had been missing a week by now. A week Sherlock had spent to get here, a week to find out where to look, a week to find this neighbourhood; suburban houses, all of them with basement, would be easy to hide in plain sight here. Just act normal and people, like this lady here, wouldn’t suspect a thing at all. Put a white van in a slum, and people will look. Paint a logo on it and park it in the suburbs, and… There we go.

It really wasn’t that difficult to see, if you knew what you were looking for – A van to bring Emily in, a house to keep her in, to keep the façade up, quiet and calm. It was perfect.

And it was empty.

Perfect. Life was almost too simple today.

Crawling inside the window wouldn’t have been that difficult, but it would be raising suspicion… Instead he picked the lock, far too easy with these locks, and entered as if he’d just opened it by key.

The house didn’t seem inhabited at all – the boxes were unpacked, the rooms were dark, smelled of dust. The only indication that someone were living here were the curtains, lamps, flower pots in the windows. It seemed too perfect, but of course no one would notice. Hiding in plain sight.

It didn’t take long before finding the trap door leading to the basement, and the moment he opened it open he froze.

“Please… it’s so cold... it’s so dark…”

A girl’s voice, Emily. Sherlock waited, waited, waited to see if someone responded, and then…

“You won’t… You won’t get away with this… I won’t let you…”

No one replied.

In a few steps Sherlock was downstairs, and the sight, the smell was… disturbing. Familiar, welcoming. Fuck.

“Emily?” he asked, his voice uncertain as he stepped closer to the girl strapped to the chair. A table with food was in front of her, and Sherlock could only imagine what amounts of Shrooms they had stuffed into her at this points.

It felt so close, it would have been so easy… so easy to just take some of it for his own use… No one would know, not when Emily was like this.

Emily gasped and lifted her head.

“Who’s there?!” she urged, scared, as if it was the first voice she’d heard in far too long.

This was wrong. Why couldn’t she see him? This was all wrong.

“Emily, it’s alright, I’m not here to hurt you.” Sherlock continued, slowly moving closer as he looked around. Nothing. No one.

Emily tilted her head, staring straight past him as he moved closer.

“I’m going to take you out of here. Don’t be afraid, it’s – “ he began, but Emily spoke again.

“It’s okay. You don’t sound like them. You sound uncertain, but… kind… I trust you.” She whispered, her voice trembling.

If she already trusted him, they must have fucked her up big time.

“Come here, then…” Sherlock muttered as he loosened the ties around her wrists and legs, and let her fall into his arms. It took him a few tries, but finally he got her into his arms and lifter her, her body far too light, leaning towards his chest.

Great.

 

-

 

John had finally gotten off work, exhausted from everything, and for the second day in a row Sherlock was gone. John was just about to call Laurie up when he found the note:

Went to find Emily. Meet me at the Yard.-SH

P.S. Took your gun.-SH

That was more than enough for John to throw his coat back on, call Greg and hail a cab.

“Greg, it’s John. I think Sherlock’s found Emily. I’m on my way over, he said to meet him there.”

He could hear the curse lying under Greg’s breath when he replied.

“I was just on my way home… I’ll see you in my office.”

The cab ride was short, and John had only been there a few minutes when Sherlock barged in, carrying a thin, pale girl in his arms. He placed the girl in the sofa in Greg’s office, and turned to snarl at him.

“You didn’t tell me she was fucking blind!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	8. The Dead End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week it had taken Sherlock to get here - a week spent running straight into a dead end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for late update, but I'm off school now so I'll have more time to write!
> 
> And again, thanks to at_kilis_service for helping me out when I'm stuck and need help! <3

It didn't take Sherlock long to prove that Emily wasn't blind as he'd first thought. Exposure to light and movement made her eyes flicker, and so it had to be something else making her unable to see the people around her.

Emily had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s arms on the way to the station, and was now placed safely in the sofa in Lestrade’s office.  She was sleeping restlessly, twitching and wincing in her dreams, and her face was torn in an expression of terror.

“Sherlock, answer me!”

Greg’s voice was somewhere in the back of Sherlock’s mind, but he stared intently at Emily. She would be okay. They’d feed her, keep her under surveillance for a while, and then she’d go back home, but still it felt wrong.

“Sherlock!”

_She’ll be okay. But if she’s like me she won’t. But she’s not like me, she wasn’t there voluntarily. But she is like me, otherwise I wouldn’t have found her. What’s going on?_

“Sherlock, we need to know where in the bloody hell you found her!”

_But if she was voluntary, where would she go? Would she have been alone? Would she go somewhere else?_

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice called out somewhere, and a safe, firm touch to his arm startled him to look up, his eyes meeting John’s.

“There you are.” John murmured, and for the split of a second Sherlock’s mouth fell open, and he glanced wearily towards Greg who watched them both intently.

“We really do need to know where you found her.”

Greg was still watching when Sherlock bounced up from his chair, seemingly unaware of the way John looked at him. He was still watching when John’s eyes followed Sherlock pacing around the office, and he was still watching when John gave Sherlock a reassuring smile when he stopped pacing. What was this?

“You want to catch them, don’t you?” John continued hesitatingly, but his voice was calm and soft.

“That’s the thrill of the game, isn’t it? If you can outsmart them? Which you always can.”

It was as if something in Sherlock’s eyes changed, and if he noticed Greg didn’t mention anything. He just watched in silence as the detective wrote down an address, completely oblivious to the obviously smitten doctor, and after sending John a questioning look Sherlock gave the note to Greg. 

-

Back at the house Greg had sent two officers to interrogate the old lady while searching the house with Sherlock, John staying behind in case Emily woke.

Sherlock knew Greg wasn’t too pleased to work alone with him, but he also knew that Greg wouldn’t let anyone else stay alone with him either. It was a nuisance, really, but the second Sherlock saw the house he knew something was wrong, and for once it was nice not to have anyone else but Greg there.

“Didn’t you say that the only sign of inhabitants were the curtains?” Greg asked, and Sherlock glared angrily at the windows.

“Yes, I suppose I did.” He muttered, and in the corner of his eye he could see Greg shifting on his feet, a clear sign of confusion and perhaps nervousness.

“Then, uhm… I take it you’ve noticed that there are no curtains, then?” Greg continued, clearly uncomfortable.

Sherlock grunted.

“Clearly.” He sighed, rolling his eyes before walking up to the door. It was open, and Sherlock secretly wished it had been locked so as to give him a few more seconds before realizing.

It was empty.

The boxes were gone, lamps vanished, and despite the fading light through the open door, the place was pitch dark.

“Uhm, Sherlock…” Greg began, but Sherlock cut him off with a snarl.

“I’m not blind, Lestrade!” he snapped, before turning back into the empty house. This would prove to be unpleasant at best.

-

“Mister? Mister, where are you?”

John had nearly fallen asleep when his eyes darted open at the pleading voice. Emily was struggling to sit upright, and her eyes were squinting as if uncomfortable.

“ _Mister_.” She continued pleading, and in a swift movement John moved towards her.

“It’s alright, I’m –“ he tried to reassure, laying a hand carefully on her arm, but she flinched away.

“No, don’t! Don’t touch me!” she gasped, clutching her own arm. “I won’t let you take me back, where is he, what have you done to him?!”

Emily rambled, her head darting around as if searching for something she couldn’t see, and John slowly sat down in his own chair again. Was she talking about Sherlock? Was she _pleading_ for Sherlock?

“I’m not going to take you back. Sherlock is back where he found you, to find whoever kept you there. Are you alright?” John asked, but instead of showing concern she seemed to relax, falling back down into the sofa.

“It’s over… it’s over… it’s finally over, they’re gone…” she mumbled to herself, and fell asleep once again.

-

Back at the house they weren’t getting anywhere at all.

Sherlock had been through the kitchen searching for food or fingerprints when he heard the two officers returning to Greg.

“There is no old lady, Greg.” One of them began, and Sherlock could practically _feel_ Greg rolling his eyes.

“What do you mean ‘there is no old lady’, of course there is! Sherlock specifically told us that the old lady living in that house led him to this one!” Greg argued, and the other officer sighed.

“Well, there isn’t. And this house looks rather empty, don’t you think? Who’s to say he didn’t make it up? There isn’t any sign here of anyone, and the house the supposedly old lady lived in? It’s a family, a newlywed couple with their infant who has _just_ moved in. It isn’t possible that…” the officer continued, but Sherlock had had enough.

With a huff he barged between them and ripped open the basement door, storming down only to freeze half way in the stairs.

The intense smell from earlier was gone, and it felt old, dusty, empty… With his heart dropping low in the pit of his stomach Sherlock walked down the last steps, only to stare at the empty spot where Emily’s chair had been standing just an hour earlier.

_Of course._ Sherlock thought to himself.

_Hide and seek. They want to play._

-

Sherlock woke Emily with his voice, and Greg had to silent his angry rant when they noticed her stirring in the sofa.

“They’re gone, mister. You won’t find them.” She muttered, shutting Sherlock up as he turned to look at her. Her eyes were searching for him in the direction where she could hear his clothes stirring as he moved.

“You’re not blind.” Sherlock replied, to which Emily smiled weakly.

“I am not.” She stated, and Sherlock moved closer. This was peculiar, she was peculiar, this entire situation was peculiar and he had to get to the bottom of it.

“Then why can’t you see me?”

John was about to open his mouth in protest when Emily reached her hand out, hitting Sherlock’s chest as he sat down, and searching up towards his face. To both John’s and Greg’s amazement he let her touch him as he searched her face and eyes with his own.

“Reality is a concept in which I do not live. We live in different realities and what I see is not real.” She muttered, and for the first time this day Sherlock frowned at her.

“Nonsense.” He stated, bending his head away to which Emily reached after him, cupping her hand against his cheek.

“We can’t possibly be sure of seeing the exact same things, but if you see something in front of you right now that is me. Your eyes are following my movements; your hands are following my head. You’re not blind, and you’re not drugged anymore so you can’t be delusional either.” Sherlock continued, and to make a statement he opened his mouth and led her finger up to bite, to which Emily flinched away long before he managed to.

Sherlock smirked.

“There we go. You’ve been manipulated, haven’t you? You must have, but why let them get so close?”

There was something disturbing in the way Emily’s face turned down his hopeful voice, how she turned in on herself, folded her hands in her lap.

“You won’t find them. You’ve gotten too close, Holmes. This knowledge has a price you do not want to pay and I have already told you too much.” She whispered, and turned to John and Greg.

“Detective Inspector, I assume my mother would like to know where I am. I am ready to be interrogated, and then I would like to go home.”

The demand was clear, though her voice was still hoarse and careful, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest John, interfered again. With protests they got him out as Sally helped Emily to the interrogation room.

This was not going the way it should have.

-

John had spent the evening trying to get some food into Sherlock, which proved to be entirely futile, because why eat after a case if the case wasn’t closed? Solved? There were too many loose threads and Sherlock refused to give it up.

What she’d said to him, it wasn’t right. She’d called him Holmes, but when had she learnt his name?

Sherlock was restless, upset, pacing around with his violin in his arms, waving around in the air as he muttered to himself, because how was he supposed to make sense out of this? If she knew who he was then someone must have told her, and if they had told her it meant he mattered, but why would they then leave without any sign? Why get him involved only to push him away? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t a trap, it wasn’t a game; it was just a maze with all dead ends. Perhaps that was the point? To distract him from something else?

“John!” Sherlock spun around, pointing the violin bow in John’s face just an inch away from his nose.

“John, it’s a distraction! They’re distracting me from something much more important, it has to be, they think they’re being clever but it’s all so-“

“Sherlock, stop it.” John sighed and brushed the bow away. “Calm down, will you? It’s been way too much; you’ve been going at this for days!”

Sherlock lowered his bow and glared at John.

“But I have to solve this. They’re challenging me; I have to find them!” he retorted, but he already sounded insecure.

“No, you really don’t. You solve murders – Emily is alive, and you need to let this go and let me have my tea and relax so that I can actually be ready to go to work tomorrow.” John snapped back, and his voice sounded tired.

Sherlock glared, and after a moment of silence he retreated and slumped down in his chair.

_Why is he mad?_ He thought, looking at John from the corner of his eye. _He has to see, I have to solve this._

In his own chair John was pretending to read a book, lost in his own thoughts, and the silence was pressing and devastating. Sherlock wanted to throw the book away, to convince John that they had to go out, that they had to find evidence and solve this, but he felt trapped by John’s reprimand, by the tired look on his face. Was this how it felt like to care? If so, Mycroft was right – it was a disadvantage and Sherlock wanted it to end.

John didn’t say anything more and neither did Sherlock, so when the doctor finally went to bed it was as if the air was relieved from the tension between them. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to take from it, but he didn’t want to give up.

_I’ll have to go see her tomorrow._ He decided just before his phone buzzed. _Greg has to agree to let me interrogate her._

Sherlock groaned and sat up, staring at his screen before snapping out of his thoughts. Greg. He reached out for his phone, unlocked it and made a displeased, frustrated whine.

She refused to press charges. Doesn’t remember any faces or names. Case is closed. - Lestrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	9. Nothing Below A Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crime scene wasn’t as much of a crime scene as it was an almost dried off pool of blood, some tire marks in the road and a desperate mother crying in the garden of the closest house. Cassandra was already in the morgue, had been the entire night, and the blood spatter wasn’t enough to indicate exactly what had happened.
> 
> Sherlock, however, didn’t need any blood spatter to figure out. He didn’t need a body to investigate, a murder weapon to inspect; not when he had the victim’s bedroom within walking distance, and the suspect’s was in the house next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this is a bit late and it's not edited, but I thought I'd just get it out there. I'll be posting next chapter tomorrow, though, or the day after!
> 
> And again, thanks to at_kilis_service for helping me out when I'm stuck and need help! <3

Weeks had passed, and Sherlock had not forgotten about the Emily case, but hidden it deep within his mind palace. He just couldn’t let it go, and despite John’s many attempts to get Sherlock out, to get him to eat or at least do something that wasn’t moping in the sofa all day long, everything seemed futile.

Sherlock almost felt bad for him.

And then came the days where John would bring a date home, leaving Sherlock awake all night. The creaks from the bedroom floor, the pants and moans from the ventilation system kept his mind spinning and working and struggling in circles.

John seemed distracted. The amount of perfume and hair product when he’d leave was decreasing, and the lack of flattery and offered drinks when he brought a new bait home indicated that he wasn’t as interested as he’d previously been.

The sounds from the bedroom weren’t as rapid and intense, either. John wasn’t focused. And still the girls, whoever they were, never seemed to scream _less_ despite John’s effort. So he was a good lover.

A good lover, yet distracted.

It was Sherlock’s fault, he was positive of it. They hadn’t had a single case since Emily – Sherlock had refused anything Greg had showed up with, and John had been nagging Sherlock to let it go.

_So to sum it up… I’m obnoxious, rude and selfish, we haven’t had a case in weeks, he’s distracted, bored, maybe he’s having nightmares again, maybe he’s thinking about leaving, this isn’t why he moved in with me._

Sherlock groaned to himself, ruffling his hair in a frustrated manner. This had to stop.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The clock was showing 2:13 in the morning.

\- Lestrade. Give me a case.-SH  


-  


Greg didn’t read the text when it buzzed in – he was far too busy wrapping the arm around his waist off, fighting with the sheets and legs wrapped around his to get some air. His other half made a displeased groan, but soon they settled in again, sleeping the night through.

When he woke up, however, Greg’s lover was long gone and his phone was blinking annoyingly in the dark. Going back to sleep was useless, and despite having the weekend off he couldn’t help but turning around, grabbing the phone with a violent movement and a grunt. He unlocked the screen, blinked at the bright light, and soon he wished he hadn’t.

Bloody Holmes.

Of course, calling Sherlock to tell him that he didn’t have anything above a four didn’t seem to matter. This particular day, the one, rare day he had off, Sherlock Holmes didn’t seem to take no for an answer. Despite having so often declared that nothing below a seven was worth his time this day anything above a two seemed to work.

Arguing with Sherlock Holmes was rarely worth it, and once again Greg proved that correct as he sat up in the bed, groaning his response to the eager detective on the phone.

“Sherlock, I have the weekend off…” he complained, while rubbing his face.

“ _You can’t take the weekend off from murder.”_

Bloody Sherlock. Of course he was right, but there wasn’t anything worth solving.

“Well, I don’t have anything interesting,” he tried, but not even that was an acceptable answer.

“ _Of course you do. You have to have **some** murders you haven’t solved yet.”_

Gregory groaned and lay back in his bed.

“Well, we do have a 3…” he sighed, remembering poor Cassandra found dead in her own neighborhood. He wasn’t even needed there, but if he had to go to work he’d rather have something easy…

“ _I’ll take it.”_

Not even an hour later Greg was standing in the morgue, looking down at the corpse of Cassandra, cup of coffee in left hand, and an imaginary leash on Sherlock Holmes in his right.  


-  


It wasn’t the worst hangover he’d had, but when Sherlock woke him by pulling his blankets off John wasn’t exactly happy. It was cold, uncomfortable, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Sherlock was halfway down the stairs when the blankets hit the floor he would have been more than a bit mad.

Stumbling down he got himself into the shower, and when he got back out, fully dressed, the unfamiliar smell of eggs and ham hit him in the face with a shovel.

“Jesus…” he groaned, feeling the hunger pulling in his stomach, and when he entered the kitchen Sherlock was sitting with an empty plate, pointing to a plate on the other side of the, for once, clean table.

“Eat.” Sherlock demanded, prompting John to raise an eyebrow. “Food, glass of water and some painkillers. We have a case. Eat.”

John gave Sherlock questioning look, but as his flatmate bounced off to get dressed in something other than his sheet he was left hungry and alone in the kitchen.

_Oh, sod it. He wouldn’t poison you, not again._ He thought, and decided that even if Sherlock _did_ plan on drugging him it would be better than this nagging hunger and devious headache, and sat down to eat…

… and thanked the heavens for having a scientist as flatmate, because the food was bloody delicious, and might in fact be the best thing John had ever had for breakfast in his entire life.

If anyone had told John that eggs and ham could taste this delicious he would have laughed it off, but chances were that if the food on his plate wasn’t dead he might actually have fled the country to marry it.

And that was exactly how long John managed to ponder about his existence and eggs and ham, because Sherlock came barging in with his coat collar up, in the middle of pulling his scarf on.

“You’re not done, yet?!” he exclaimed, forcing John shove the rest of the delicious meal into his mouth, devouring it with all his heart’s content, and jump up.

“Mmph’ine!” he muttered, mouth full of food, and went to fetch his own coat

John’s version of a weekend wasn’t investigating a murder, and although he had gotten used to Sherlock’s  way of living he wasn’t necessarily ready to join into all of the aspects himself. But hey, who was he to complain? Nine o’clock on a Saturday morning and they were on their way to a crime scene? It was far from how he’d wanted his weekend to go but at least it was something.  


-  


The crime scene wasn’t as much of a crime scene as it was an almost dried off pool of blood, some tire marks in the road and a desperate mother crying in the garden of the closest house. Cassandra was already in the morgue, had been the entire night, and the blood spatter wasn’t enough to indicate exactly what had happened.

Sherlock, however, didn’t need any blood spatter to figure out. He didn’t need a body to investigate, a murder weapon to inspect; not when he had the victim’s bedroom within walking distance, and the suspect’s was in the house next door.

“Did you say suspect, Sherlock?” Greg exclaimed, nearly snarling at Sherlock as they walked away from Donovan and the crew. “It was a clear hit and run!”

Sherlock waved it off, and continued walking.

“Hit and run? In a neighbourhood like this? Someone would’ve heard tires screeching, and the tire marks could be from sometime earlier. Besides, the speed limit is too low – if it was a hit and run someone would have complained about the speed as well. Have you heard any complaints? No. Does the neighbour have a bad relationship with the victim? Yes. Does the suspect own a shovel? Conveniently ‘hidden’ in the bushes? Yes. What do we say about coincidences? The universe is rarely so lazy!”

The last words were nearly exclaimed in a triumphant way as they approached the house.

“Sherlock, we need to be completely sure. This is talking about murder, if it’s true we have to arrest him.” Greg continued, and Sherlock spun to face him.

“What do you think, Lestrade? The girl had osteoporosis! An angry neighbour with obvious history could’ve hit her with a shovel, a shovel he tried to hide, and killed her off! Which is why I’m off to question the mother, and you should be off arresting the suspect.”

There was nothing right about what Sherlock was saying, but the man still strolled over to the victim’s house, John following him obediently.

And that was how it went. Of course. That was how it always went with Sherlock Holmes. A deduction here and a deduction there, case solved and then they went home. Sherlock was nearly skipping with joy when John and he hailed a cab back, and Greg hadn’t even gotten a chance to wake up properly.

Well, fuck it. They got a killer, case solved, just some paper work and he’d be right back, home.

Only it wasn’t that easy.

Only interrogating Oliver didn’t go as planned.

Only his lawyer gave him alibi.

Only this fuckwad called himself in, showing up at the station to explain.

Holmes fucked up.  


-  


Sherlock was sleeping on the sofa, seemingly exhausted and finally at peace with himself. John found it mesmerizing.

Weeks had passed, trying to get something done when Sherlock would keep complaining about the Emily case, how it didn’t make sense, how it wasn’t truly closed, and he had stared to get really worried, but this… This was good.

Sherlock had eaten when they had gotten back. A steak and some asparagus, actually, and John was feeling rather content with getting him to eat that much.

He was feeling rather content all over, actually. Another case solved - maybe not a chase after a suspect but hey, who was he to complain?

John was sitting in his chair reading a book when it happened. It was a bit past four in the evening, and the Saturday was feeling alright. Sherlock was still sleeping – obviously, he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and things were peaceful. Things were great.

Mrs. Hudson was stacking tea cups in the cupboard, humming another one of her “good, old tunes”, some cars were honking outside and a bird flew straight into the window.

“Oh, that poor thing.” Mrs. Hudson had huffed, before continuing to tidy up, and John laughed it off.

And then it happened.

John’s phone rang.

Nothing out of the ordinary, not on a Saturday, and John put the book away to answer.

“Hey, Greg! Everything alright?” he greeted casually, but his smile soon fell.

_“I was hoping you could answer that for me…”_ Greg replied, and there was nothing alright with the voice in the other end of the phone. He sounded tired, upset, worried even, and it was nothing like Greg at all.

“Of course, I mean, what’s wrong?” John managed to stutter while standing to his feet.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Hudson interrupted as she saw his face, but a stern look and a wave of his hand had her apologizing and taking off soon. If something was wrong she didn’t need to hear about it.

_“No, I mean… Well, it’s not exactly your business, but then it sort of is… Cassandra’s neighbour, his name is Oliver, I interrogated him. He refuses to have anything to do with the murder. He says the shovel went missing weeks ago.”_

John pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning lightly.

“Of course he does, isn’t that what all murderers do? He’s defending himself, clearly…” John tried, but Gregory sighed heavily.

_“Well, of course, but… he has an alibi as well. And the history Sherlock talked about? I’m guessing he just assumed it because he wasn’t all over us crying or something, ‘cause apparently he’d never hurt her. Seems he was in love with her.”_ The detective inspector continued, and John started to feel a little unease. This wasn’t right at all.

“Well, that could be a motive.” He muttered, but another time Greg sighed.

_“That’s the thing, though… We got a confession. Seems this kid bumped into her last night. He thought she would be fine, ‘cause it was a fairly easy bump, but… you know, with her osteoporosis it apparently wasn’t alright. We have a confession. For the hit and run we initially thought had happened. Sherlock… I hate do admit it, but Sherlock screwed up big time.”_

This time it was John’s time to sight. Sherlock screwed up? On a three-case? This seemed impossible.

“Shit… Right, sorry about the trouble, I’ll deal with him.” He replied, though it felt surreal just saying it.

_“Great, thanks. I, uh… We’ll be a bit more careful in the future, eh?”_

John ended the conversation and turned to look at Sherlock.

_I’ll deal with him_ , he’d said… Like that was the easiest task in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	10. Everything is Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not too long after Sherlock would start blaming himself. Blaming himself for scaring John off like this, for keeping Mycroft as far away as he could, and for forcing Lestrade to cut him off the cases. He would blame himself for everything, and it would be the making of Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer broke, so it's been a bit late, and it probably will be in the future. Anyways, this is the end of part 1! Hope you liked it!
> 
> And again, thanks to at_kilis_service for helping me out when I'm stuck and need help! <3

The atmosphere in 221B was cold, heavy, and pressing. Like the clouds appearing as the beginnings of a storm – a storm filled with rain, lightning, and darkness – threatening to fall down and crush everything in its path, everything being Sherlock Holmes and the life he thought he’d built so safely. There was a storm brewing above them, a storm that would break out when the tension cracked, when the silence turned to yelling and the frustration made the two flatmates snap.

The last cases hadn’t gone very well, if anything at all, and Sherlock seemed crushed beyond repair.

In the beginning of the week Lestrade had noticed the consulting detective wasn’t acting like himself. He seemed distracted, so he had given Sherlock an easier case than normally, hoping that would cheer him up, and it had. The only problem was how Sherlock’s… well, case solving wasn’t really… solving the case.

Sherlock had strolled across the crime scene, pointing out the obvious that was far from what anyone else had thought, and left. Greg had been satisfied, a murderer arrested and case closed, but there were things not adding up. The suspect, for one, refused to plead guilty, and the lack of actual evidence (sadly, Sherlock’s deductions wouldn’t qualify as evidence in court) meant that Lestrade would be forced to let him go. His day was just falling to pieces, but at least he had a suspect, right?

He did. Or at least until he got a call just about fifteen minutes before his day was off.

It seemed the suspect they had arrested wasn’t a suspect at all anymore, as the real “murderer” called himself in.

Bloody hell.  


-  


John had gotten a call from Lestrade the day they had solved the Cassandra case, and that was only the beginning of a series of unfortunate events.

“He was wrong”, Greg had said. “Remember Cassandra Layton? The girl with osteoporosis? She wasn’t murdered by a vengeful neighbour; it was a hit and run. It’s the biggest fuck up I’ve ever seen coming from Sherlock. Donovan and Anderson are having a blast, but I really don’t think Sherlock should know. Has anything happened lately?”

John had been worried, of course, but eventually just shrugged it off. No one can be perfect all the time, right? But further down the week he’d started noticing what Lestrade had already seen. They had solved one case, just barely, by Johns help. Everything else had fallen to pieces the moment Sherlock entered the room. It seemed as if everything Sherlock said was the opposite of the correct answer.

People started blaming him. No one seemed to ever tolerate the poor man. If he deduced correctly he was a freak, if he screwed up he was incompetent. In the end of the week Lestrade had told him to take a break, come back in a couple of weeks.

So now they were sitting there. John was finishing the blog entry about the Emily case, and Sherlock was all but staring in the wall. The atmosphere felt like it was pushing them apart.

John had opened his mouth at one point, but the air between them was too thick, and so he shut his mouth and just sighed.  


-  


John had given up understanding Sherlock months ago, and then Laurie had come along. Maybe there was something more beneath than he’d originally seen.

There was something in the eyes of his younger flatmate, in his grace, that made John think he could help, _should_ help, but not at this point. He had tried talking, tried making food, and tried offering Sherlock some interesting experiments, but nothing helped. Not this day.

In a few days John would think back to this moment. He’d relive every almost-conversation, every petty look they gave each other, every sigh, and all the silence, and he’d think “ _It’s all my fault. I should have said something. It’s my fault._ ” but there was nothing he could do to stop what was about to happen.

Right now, however, John felt exhausted for no particular reason at all. It was, somehow, even more exhausting to handle a Sherlock who didn’t want to talk or eat or sleep, than it was to handle a Sherlock who did experiments and acted like a brat to get his way.

John was starting to consider whether he should contact Mycroft or not, but somehow he still refrained… After all, Mycroft would already know, and what was the point if Mycroft himself hadn’t interfered by now? He probably knew something John didn’t, and then what was the point? Sherlock had, after all, warned him about these days.  


-  


Sherlock sat staring at the wall when John opened his mouth, and he turned his head just the slightest. Was he about to talk? To finally say something?

But, no. Silence. Still this utter silence in his mind, and everywhere else.

Ever since the Emily case had been solved and Sherlock had been given time to think about the past weeks, it had all been silent.

Why was it suddenly so difficult to think, to see what he’d seen so clearly before?

The silence was unbearable, painful even, and though it would have been so easy to open his mouth and break it Sherlock just didn’t know what to say anymore.

What was he supposed to say, though?

It wasn’t easy at all. It was complicated, difficult, complicated, complicated…

It was as if Sherlock’s brain was on pause, and the only thing left was him, nothing extraordinary, nothing special, just boring, tedious, annoying Sherlock.

Why was it that this was so difficult? Why was it that every time Sherlock could hear John take a deep breath he’d look up, and every time he met John’s eyes he’d go deaf and numb?

John looked disappointed, tired even, and Sherlock couldn’t help but think that maybe this was it. Maybe he had finally stepped the line of what John could tolerate.

It made sense, really; John had only become Sherlock’s flatmate because of the danger, the excitement in it all. They’d had fun the first months, catching killers and chasing through London’s dark alleys, but now Sherlock seemed to have lost it. Time after time he kept disappointing, letting John down.

Who were to say John wasn’t already thinking of leaving? Maybe that was why he kept so quiet.  


-  


John felt tired. It seemed as if nothing would help anymore, and Sherlock seemed to have given up on everything. Now and then he would look up at John, but he’d look back down in an instant and John was secretly afraid that Sherlock might have figured out how he felt.

Calling Mycroft was still out of the question, and since the cases seemed to be the problem he couldn’t use one to cheer Sherlock up either.

Everything had come to a stop when John offered Sherlock to come with him to work in the beginning of the week.

“You could help me.” He’d suggested friendly.

“I bet you could deduce who’s actually ill and who’s not, and it’d make it so much easier for me.”

He’d earned a glare, a sigh and a shrug, and that was the end of it. Sherlock hadn’t seemed to move from his chair ever since. He’d sit there when John went to bed, he’d sit there went John woke and he’d sit there when John came back from work.

Little did he know that when John went to bed Sherlock would sit outside his door, leaning against the wall to listen, and when he’d wake up Sherlock would run down the stairs as silently as he could and sit in his chair, listening to John take his morning shower, make himself some toast, and hear the footsteps down the stairs when he left.

John was getting just a little bit worried, because Sherlock would have to eat at some point, but he didn’t seem to realize that himself. That left John to be responsible, but what was there to do?

Sherlock wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t talk or act, he just… sat there.

It seemed hopeless, but Sherlock _had_ warned John about this before they moved together, and he certainly didn’t dare to disturb him anymore.  


-  


“John?” Sherlock’s baritone voice broke the silence, and it cut Johns mind open. He inhaled deeply before he answered.

“Yes, Sherlock?” John answered, seeming reluctant as he looked up from his laptop.

The silence fell down upon them again as Sherlock hesitated.

“Why are you still here?” he asked, prompting John to raise an eyebrow.

Sherlock could feel John watching him, hesitating before placing his answer.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, John, why are you still here? It’s hardly a difficult question.” Sherlock sighed, and finally looked up at John. Why didn’t he understand? Why wasn’t he already out the door?!

“Well, I live here, and you are my friend.” John replied, finding the question rather odd still, and Sherlock huffed frustrated. “Why shouldn’t I still be here?”

Sherlock grumbled, got up on his feet and stared John dead in the eye.

“You only live here because I’m brilliant. You love to watch me observe and deduce, and you love the chase. You’ve got what you wanted, and now I’m failing to live up to your anticipations, so why are you still here?!” he more or less snarled, his voice rising in volume as he waved his arms in the air.

“Don’t you see? There’s nothing here for you!”

The flat went silent, heavy with guilt and anguish, and the two men stared at each other, each more startled than the other.

Slowly John got to his feet and cleared his throat. Sherlock could feel something cold gripping around his lungs, squeezing the air out of him.

“Of course. You’re right. The great Sherlock Holmes never ceases to amaze.” John muttered, and Sherlock unconsciously took a step backwards. This wasn’t what he’d intended, this wasn’t right at all

“John, I…” he muttered, but John raised his hand to stop him.

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

And with that John took his coat and walked out the door of 221B Bakerstreet, with no immediate intentions of returning. Sherlock sat down in his chair again, barely allowing himself to breath, and closed his eyes.

This was all wrong.

John hadn’t wanted to leave, Sherlock had made him.

He had finally crossed the line.  


-  


“John, shut up. You’re thinking to loud.” Sherlock groaned, ruffling his hair in annoyance.

The flat was silent around him, pressure and statement was followed by intense silence, like it was waiting for him to realize. He could feel a shift in the ear behind him, the slight of a shadow casting over the violin in the corner of his eye.

 _Of course,_ Sherlock thought to himself, _John left. That means someone else is here, someone who have no good intentions. They’re standing behind me. Most likely armed. No problem, I can handle this, I’ve done it before._

Sherlock took a deep breath, clearing his voice before he spoke next.

“You should just drop your weapon, you’re only – “ he began, but he heard a grunt and clothes shuffling behind him, and with a short blow towards his neck Sherlock could feel his body go numb as he fell to the floor. It didn’t hurt particularly much, but his attempt of moving on the floor forced a groan from him and he faded away from his consciousness. Not too long after Sherlock would start blaming himself. Blaming himself for scaring John off like this, for keeping Mycroft as far away as he could, and for forcing Lestrade to cut him off the cases. He would blame himself for everything, and it would be the making of Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, not all of this was Sherlock’s fault, but the consequences remained the same, and as Sherlock was carried out of the 221B there was no one there to prevent what would happen next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of my first fanfiction ever. If you would like to beta, or you find something to complain on, please don't hesitate to tell me. As long as it's constructive criticism, I'm glad :)


	11. AUTHOR'S NOTE

I am terribly sorry for not having continued this series yet. Part 2 has been planned in detail, but I've had quite a lot of issues regarding my own life and school and etc, and my motivation has been really low. In a week I'm done at school and I'll have plenty of time writing, so after getting some rest I'll be back at it! Sorry for the long wait, dearies!


End file.
